


The Unsuitability of Beethoven

by idlesuperstar



Series: The Life And Death Of Sugar Candy [9]
Category: Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943), Powell and Pressburger - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:54:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlesuperstar/pseuds/idlesuperstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music was music; happily free of borders and diplomatic incidents. It was friendships and moments in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unsuitability of Beethoven

**Author's Note:**

> Series notes [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/36980)

What nonsense people wrote sometimes, Clive thought, putting down his empty coffee cup. A letter to _The Times_ about the unsuitability of Beethoven. Beethoven! The writer was obviously the sort of idiot who only noticed a soldier when he was fighting on the doorstep; who never had to lift a finger, safe behind the English Channel, and couldn’t point out Durban on a map. No-one had complained about music when they were fighting the Boers. Well, Clive smiled ruefully to himself, no-one but himself and Hoppy. A line of _Titania_ sprang to mind, bringing with it the hot dank closeness of those cramped quarters, and of Hoppy, pulling all the stops out. Then - swiftly superseding it - the image of Theo at his window. Clive’s heart skittered, thinking of those bright days, and he touched a hand to his pocket, where his wallet was. 

Mind you, Germany was a little different. You couldn’t name an African composer. Clive smiled briefly at the idea of an operatic Boer. Ridiculous! Oh, the Boers had passion, that was for sure, but it was a darker, more fierce kind of energy. The frills and melodrama of opera were not for them. It needed a certain kind of continental character. It was all a bit too silly, really, for Clive. All those wailing women. But a good tune was a good tune, wherever it came from. He’d never really sat and thought about it, until now. The _Mignon_ was French, of course. _Je suis Titania._ His French master at school had always despaired of him, but he could grasp that. Amazing what stuck with you. Just think, if Hoppy had been good at French then they would never have struggled through extra lessons together. Their French had never improved but they'd been sworn brothers ever since. Such were the odd ways of fate.

Clive had never thought, when they were belting out _Mignon,_ ‘we are singing French, my English friend and I’. Had people written to _The Times_ in Nelson’s day, talking about the unsuitability of French music? Unlikely. _Mignon_ was a smash everywhere, and yet France was still the old enemy. This fellow obviously had a bee in his bonnet about Beethoven. What an idiot. Theo loved Beethoven. It was a bit dramatic for Clive, sometimes; but it suited Theo. Like his buttons, and his moustache. Clive's heart always leapt a little, now, when he heard Beethoven. He dropped the paper to his lap, leaning back in the chair, eyes closed. The image, sharp again, in his mind of Theo at the window. Of Theo in the photograph. That was the clearest picture, now. A pang of something bittersweet, that now he would not be able to visit. How the years had gone! And each year, thinking there would be time enough. And now this. Clive had never balked at any posting, left the politics to the politicians, but oh - how he rued the circumstances that had put him on the opposite side to Theo. 

It was ridiculous, in a way. Like a gang of schoolboys, taking sides, so that before you knew it your best friend was fighting against you. The King was German, or near as dammit. Perhaps he felt as sorry as Clive, for having to face off against his friends. Perhaps the King was also reading _The Times_ and thinking about Beethoven. Schubert, too. Theo loved Schubert. Perhaps, if one was German, one had more sense of the music. And they had been churning out great composers for centuries, after all. Mozart, too. Now there was a fellow who knew a good tune! Or was Mozart Austrian? Clive could never remember. They chopped and changed so much, those little bits of Europe. Kept the mapmakers busy. Theo didn’t like Mozart as much. What was it Theo had called him? He’d tried to convey it in German to Clive, frustrated at Clive’s inability to understand. Settled, grumbling, on ‘easy’. Clive had smiled indulgently and simply said ‘I like easy’.  Ha. It had been true of course, still was. Something easy. Something one could whistle. 

The image of Theo, at the window, again. Clive had never thought, either, ‘here is my German friend, whistling French music.’ Music was music; happily free of borders and diplomatic incidents. It was friendships and moments in time. That was the real nub of it. Theo had always whistled _Titania_ to tease. In the end, the song itself was almost irrelevant. 

Of course, music was also stuffy nights at the Opera with a series of well-bred girls - but then, that wasn’t _really_ what music was. And it was jolly nights at the music halls with beer and a house full of fellows singing along - _that_ was much more the thing.  Clive bet that Theo’s kellars would be just the same. Forget the rarified world of Mendlessohn and Haydn; there must be thousands of men drinking beer and singing songs all over Germany. Theo would be just as home amongst them as at the opera. 

The _Mignon_ came again; sharp, exuberant, and he couldn’t help but let it burst forth a little. _There_ was a tune! And how strange, Clive thought, that it now held only happy associations. The tedium of those weeks in Jordaan Siding had long faded, leaving only the memory of friendship. And stronger, much stronger, the memory of Theo on that cloudless morning, his face creased in pleasure, asking admittance. Clive whistled for a moment. Theo frozen in the window, in that odd little limbo where anything was still possible, where the only sadness was the lack of time, and where Clive’s heart was cracked wide open, overflowing. He put a hand to his chest, as if he could steady his wayward heart that way. This was what happened when he thought too much of it. It was an indulgence he allowed himself rarely; it would do no good to dwell; it never did any good to dwell. 

He opened his eyes, sat up, cast _The Times_ aside. He would call on Hoppy. Hoppy - and Sybil - were always full of good cheer, and the girls would be there; he could play the indulgent Uncle and slip them sweets when Sybil wasn’t looking. He could pick something up on the way. Besides, who knew when they would next meet? Hoppy had no doubt received his orders too. He got to his feet, and with a determination that would be familiar only to his men, took up his coat and hat and left the house; head up, eyes forward, and whistling “Covent Garden in the Morning”. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This (in a much smaller, more embryonic form) was the very first _Sugar Candy_ fic I wrote, all those months ago. The central idea still holds, even if I reworked almost everything else. 
> 
> This would not be here without **jennytheshipper** , partly because of her dedicated beta work, but mainly because she wrote a fic that made me want to write Clive, and thus began the most ridiculous and brilliant writing experience of my life. 
> 
> This would of course also not be here without the twin geniuses of Micky and Emeric; _Blimp_ is the gift that keeps on giving. Eternal thanks to them for that. And to Emeric, for deciding at some point to ditch the Wagner and go for Thomas instead.
> 
> Finally, 'Covent Garden in the Morning' was a popular song of the turn of the century. It's in the original script, in a scene that got cut (Hoppy and Clive and more bathing). It's _also_ briefly heard in _The Red Shoes_ \- no idea is ever wasted.


End file.
